The El-Hassan household was always quiet.
Not because they were peaceful. But because they had learned to bury sound beneath tradition.
Her father's voice ruled the walls. Deep, commanding, a man who had shaped his daughters with prayer and fear. Her mother was quieter—a woman of faded rebellion, now diluted into obedience and soft warnings.
That night at dinner, her father cleared his throat. The sound made Aaliyah's stomach turn.
"I spoke with Brother Nabil," he said. "His nephew is looking for a wife. A proper one. You'll meet him next Friday."
Aaliyah paused mid-chew.
Her mother shot her a look. Don't argue here.
She swallowed. "I don't think I'm ready for marriage yet."
Her father's eyes narrowed. "You don't have to be ready. You have to be willing."
No more was said. But a sentence hung in the silence: You don't get to choose.
After dinner, she went to her room and locked the door. The adhan echoed softly from her phone's app, and she knelt to pray—but her hands shook.
That night, she prayed not for guidance.
But for escape.
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